AUTHOR'S NOTE — 10/2/2024: Welcome, everyone, to Mors Aeterna. I've been working on-and-off on this piece of fanfiction for several years now, and to-date it is the most difficult, unwieldy piece of fiction I've ever created. At its heart, this is an alternate universe story — featuring a Girl-Who-Lived, where magical education begins at fifteen rather than eleven, Voldemort truly was destroyed that fateful Halloween night in 1981, as well as a few curveballs thrown in for good measure. While I won't outright say that this is a "Dark Harry" fic, I'd like to believe that I've created a character that has enough of canon Harry's traits and habits while still maintaining a fresh, new perspective. When I set out on writing this, I wanted to create something that expanded on the established lore and worldbuilding without becoming 'too much,' if such a thing is possible. We will see cultures outside of Britain (with a focus on Beauxbatons, for reasons that will become clear), a focus on the international duelling circuit, as well as my favourite part of Harry Potter canon: the Peverells. That's right! This is a Master (or Mistress, as it were) of Death story! I will be heavily expanding on the Hallows and what they can do, the history of the Peverell family, and what that means for our protagonists.
While I'm not typically one to beg and plead for reviews, favourites, or comments, I am profoundly proud of this story. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. The current schedule is one chapter posted weekly. If that changes, I will add it in an author's note on the most recently posted chapter to date. Thank you all so much for taking the time to read my fics. It means the world, truly.
All that said, onto the tale...
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The end of Morgan Potter's life began with a distant sort of ringing in her ears. It…almost made her recall the chiming of church bells, though constant and monotonous, echoing through her eardrums with the same urgency of a tell-tale hiss-crack of thunder. No other sound met her ears; she could not even account for her own breath, if she even still breathed at all. And yet, her other senses worked just fine. Her sight, clear. Standing before her, towering above like doom itself, was Vernon — still screaming, spittle still flying from his lips, face burgeoning a splotchy, fierce crimson.
Morgan blinked, the flimsy thin membrane of skin flickering over her eyes like wax paper made of butterfly wings. Vernon, enraged as he was, made no sound.
Petunia stood behind him, an arm held around his barrel chest, her own mouth moving in odd time. Her aunt's eyes were wide and fearful, glistening with unshed tears. She was holding Vernon back, Morgan realised, and found that she didn't care. Dudley, bless his wretched soul, sat at the dinner table even now, chomping away at a hork of pot roast that Morgan had spent hours preparing. The smell…
She began to remember: toiling over heat and flame for most of the morning. The bleeding, ekeing red of marbled chuck roast, the tears drawn from her eyes after sliced the onion, the careful, precise movements of the knife in her palms as she cut the carrots. The scent of fresh thyme and rosemary, picked from what was nominally Petunia's garden, though Morgan felt a fierce ownership of it herself. She'd done all of the hard labour in cultivating those herbs and flowers, after all.
The splash and sizzle of the deep burgundy Cabernet as she deglazed the pan. The smoke suffocating her lungs as she seared the beef, the overwhelming weight in her tiny arms from the heavy cast-iron pan. Oh, she felt the soreness now, that dull ache in her biceps and back. A familiar sensation, one she associated with pulling weeds in the garden from sunrise to sunset, from spending the weekends cleaning the entire house from attic to crawlspace to cupboard, from fleeing from Dudley and his little gang — or standing her ground, if escape was untenable.
Morgan Potter was eight years old, and she was Vernon and Petunia Dursley's slave.
She felt her attention wane, eyes casting over the kitchen and dining room, and to the floor, where she saw it: myriad shards of broken china, old porcelain in a hue of off-white and cerulean, scattered across the floor. Her own meagre portion of supper remained as it was, splattered and ruined. She'd thought — well, she'd hoped after spending so long on the meal that she might be allowed to eat it herself.
She'd been wrong. Vernon and Dudley had taken to the meal with their usual enthusiasm, attacking the roast and potatoes with the ferocity of starving dogs. Petunia, however, had been more circumspect with her approval — or lack thereof. Only when she'd caught sight of Morgan leaning against the kitchen countertop, a marginally smaller plate of roast in her tiny, scarred hands, did she make any note.
That note being, of course, that Morgan shouldn't've been allowed to eat the same food or indeed, even in the same room as the rest of the family. It was the first time in Morgan's memory that she recalled being noted as part of the family at all.
Thus, the shattered plate along the tile floor, and Vernon's spittle flinging across her forehead. Vernon stood very much taller than her, as he always had, and that had added to his intimidation of her for as long as she could remember. But Morgan felt it regardless, a righteous sense of wrath deep in her bones, and a rather uncontrollable rage that made her blood rise to boiling in her veins.
The ringing persisted, almost like a warning siren, and now sound began its slow return to Morgan's world. Cursing her ill luck, she closed her eyes and tried not to focus on the clamour of Vernon's screaming as it reached her ears.
"...the last time, girl, I tell you!" came his hoarse bellow. Beady, watery blue eyes focused on her aunt's trembling form for a moment before rounding back on her. "Just like your mother, I daresay — useless, ungrateful, unnatural! I've had enough — we both have," he indicated that Petunia was in agreement, though Morgan wasn't quite sure of that. "Our leniency can only go so far. Nothing a good beating won't cure."
He'd stepped closer and closer with every passing word, and now Morgan was forced to crane her neck far back to even maintain eye contact. But his threats made her stomach clench and broil, and she felt a cold bead of sweat sliver down her spine. His meaty paw moved to remove his belt, a foe Morgan had endured for half a decade now.
She flinched. "Please," she murmured, backing into the wall. Like a wound to her side, memories of Vernon's belt on her skin slid between her ribs. Her throat caught. Petunia whipping her feet and calves with a switch for dragging mud onto the carpet. Vernon folded the belt in half. Morgan's entire body felt like an exposed nerve, raw and twitching. She held a tiny hand up in surrender. "Please, uncle."
Her eyes met Petunia's. The woman was her mother's sister — they shared a bond of blood, an unspoken promise of protection and care, or so Morgan felt. For the briefest moment, she thought she saw a flicker of guilt, the tiniest shred of regret, but then her aunt's gaze went cold and emotionless. Vernon raised his fist, the leather in his palm promising pain, and something within her…snapped.
Hands held to her temples, fingers clenched so tightly into her hair she could rip it all out, eyes clenched shut, Morgan sobbed. "Leave me ALONE!"
The room yawned inward, as if taking a deep breath, and then exploded.
It felt very much like being pulled into the undertow, a riptide current casting her out to sea, though Morgan had no measure of comparison for such a thing. Like the harshest wind in a stormy sky, a curving scythe of pure energy poured from her. Perfectly round and impeccably symmetrical, the pale green blade slammed into her aunt and uncle and sent them flying. The room around them surrendered to the wave as if rent apart by a tornado.
Vernon flew straight back, tumbling over the dinner table and through the glass french doors onto the patio outside. The glass shattered around him cutting into his back and thighs. With a thump that vibrated the ground, he landed hard and slid to stop on the concrete, thin trails of deep crimson staining the ground beneath him.
Petunia, being both just behind Vernon and much, much smaller, received the brunt of the violence. As Vernon was being blown backward, his body collided with hers, sending her spiralling with the intensity of a cannon shot. She flew, arse over tea kettle, into the kitchen. The cabinets shook and roared, wrenched from their hinges. Petunia's neck hit the corner of the island with a crack like gunfire, and the room went still.
Morgan dropped to her knees as if cut from a marionette. She breathed unevenly, trembling from rage, pain, and exhaustion all three, and her lips quivered. She felt so tired.
"What did you do?"
Shocked, her eyes whipped up, and she witnessed Dudley standing from the destroyed table, the fork in his hand still raised halfway to his mouth. His blue eyes, so like Vernon's, watered, his fingers trembling. She saw him swallow thickly, saw his gaze flicker about the destruction in terror, and then settle on his mother's prone, still form. His skin paled, all colour faded, and then a shade of violet rage flushed his round face. He threw the fork down.
"WHAT DID YOU DO?" he bellowed. His body twitched as if to move, and Morgan fled without thought.
His screams followed her as she sprinted away from the dining room, down the main hallway, and out the front door. They persisted, even as she ran down the dim, barely-lit street of Privet Drive, bare feet slapping on poorly-maintained asphalt. They haunted her, even when she began to wish, plead, and pray to be somewhere else, anywhere else, and then, as if swallowed by darkness itself, the world around her twisted on its axis and disappeared with a pop.
Morgan Potter was never seen in Surrey again.
"We've got something."
Kingsley Shacklebolt, a veteran auror of some years, looked up from the reports on his desk. Arthur had requested his assistance with a case of misuse of a '62 Ford Anglia; somehow the witch in question had enchanted the bloody car to fly. Arthur was obsessed with it, Kingsley was decidedly not. Before him stood Amelia Bones, her wolfish eyes unwaveringly set upon him.
His former partner turned superior, recently promoted Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, looked…spooked. Kingsley swore under his breath. If the woman who had single-handedly taken on Bellatrix Lestrange and won was concerned, it didn't bode well for any of them. He stood, grabbing his satchel and wand, still encased in its holster, and followed Amelia as she strode to her office.
The bullpen was nearly silent around them. What few on-hand personnel that still were on shift worked at their desks, filing reports or filling out warrant requests. The odd auror or two met his gaze, watched as he followed their boss, and swiftly returned to their work.
"The Trace picked up a massive surge," Amelia began, taking a peek at her notes, "forty-seven minutes ago. First responders on the scene found three muggles in what looked like a warzone — Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley. They'd been victims of a burst of accidental magic."
"The damage?" asked Kingsley. They entered her office, shuttering the door. Amelia threw up a silencing ward and a locking charm before taking a seat. His took his chair facing the desk and scooted forward.
She sighed heavily, resting her head in her hands. She'd begun to sprout a few grey hairs, Kingsley noticed, since her tenure as Head of the DMLE started. He said nothing. "Extensive. The dining room and kitchen were entirely destroyed. Even our best repair experts could only fix so much. As for the family… Petunia was pronounced dead on the scene. Cervical fracture. Vernon is in St. Mungo's under Dreamless Sleep in the Spell Damage Ward, in critical condition. The son, Dudley, is under observation now, though he was not affected directly. His testimony is…" She shook her head in disbelief.
Kingsley raised a brow. "Amelia?"
His boss removed a vial from her breast pocked, the contents a milky, glistening fluid. Memories, Kingsley realised, distilled as to view them in a Pensieve. Amelia tapped her desk thrice with the tip of her wand, and an obsidian bowl inlaid with golden runes slid out from a hidden corner section. She unstoppered the vial and poured the liquid memory into the Pensieve, stirring the viscous mixture once with her wand, and then met his gaze evenly.
"Before you see this, you have to understand how high-profile this case is going to be," she said in warning. "If the boy's testimony is corroborated by the memory, it'll…it'll change everything. The impact will be felt across Britain."
"What are you dragging me into?" he asked. She said nothing, only gestured toward the Pensive on her desk. Kingsley sighed, gripped his pale hand with his own, and together they fell into Dudley Dursley's memories.
He stood in a very plain, very standard muggle suburban home. The edges of his sight were clouded, as if entrenched in thick fog, but the scene before him stood out in perfect clarity. He was allowed perfect eidetic recall here. Kingsley took out his notebook and ballpoint pen, taking note of everything.
"Where's my dinner, girl?" a man shouted. Kingsley turned.
The man he assumed to be Vernon Dursley was, to his mind, rather overweight. The man's stomach hung over his trousers, the buttons of his shirt fighting to remain clasped across his chest. The woman at his side, Petunia, was the complete inverse: tall and unhealthily thin, with displeased, pursed lips and a bun of thin hair pulled far too tightly. Dudley Dursley, the subject of this memory, was a broad, large boy who looked remarkably like his father. Dudley remained only peripherally invested in the memory, his attention glued to the television nearby.
"Morrigan save me," Amelia gasped from his side, her eyes set on the kitchen. He tilted his head curiously, and felt his stomach fall out.
He had only met Morgan Potter once, in a moment of pure coincidence, three years ago. Albus had requested he check in with Arabella Figg, an Order informant, as she had yet to report in. Kingsley hadn't the faintest idea of what she was meant to report, but he'd done as asked for old time's sake. He'd floo'd to her home. There, sitting in a high-back chair nearby, was a young girl with inky dark curls and moon-pale skin, sipping tea quietly. He'd thought little of it then.
Aside from that moment, and now this memory, he hadn't given the girl much thought. He'd heard the rumours of course, and Albus had told them all what he thought had happened that night in 1981. But looking at her now…
She was all Lily, where it mattered. In form and frame, with the brief exception of her dark hair and high cheekbones, it was as if Lily Evans had returned from the grave. She was tall and willowy, thin and lithe. Curls as black as nightshade fell over the girl's shoulders like silk, tied into a billowing ponytail at the back of her head. Shards of cold emerald stared at Petunia and Vernon without emotion, mittened hands carrying a large dutch oven. She seemed to struggle with the weight of it. As she rested the meal onto the table, her bang shifted just enough for Kingsley to catch sight of her scar.
It was indeed like lightning, just as Albus had said. It carved its way from her hairline, crackling down, bisecting her eyebrow and leading down to her cheekbone. On her pale skin, it looked raw and fresh, as if Voldemort had cast the Killing curse at her just yesterday.
"Is she…serving them?" he asked quietly. Amelia didn't answer. The low ache in his stomach persisted.
Vernon Dursley hummed, portioning himself with more than Kingsley could eat in a day. Around the table, the trio began to eat their supper. Morgan, he noticed, did not. Instead, the Girl-Who-Lived silently retreated into the kitchen and took up a smaller plate of her own — a few ounces of beef, a dollop of mashed potatoes, and a few carrots.
They starved her, he thought. The sounds of feasting continued. The television blared, a paid audience laughing at the show host as music played. The scrape of forks and knifes on fine china. Suddenly and without preamble, Petunia Dursley dropped her fork and stood, eyes blazing as she glared daggers at her niece. She strode into the kitchen. Amelia and Kingsley followed.
"What's this?" the woman demanded, gesturing to the plate in the girl's hands.
Morgan Potter blinked, utterly confused. "My supper, Aunt Petunia."
The woman sneered, the expression twisting her face into something wholly malevolent, and then she grabbed Morgan's plate and tossed it over her head and into the dining room. The crash of shattered ceramic startled both Vernon and Dudley, who stopped eating. Kingsley, who'd seen far too many cases similar to this, closed his eyes.
"GIRL!" the man bellowed, throwing the table forward with his expansive belly as he rose to his feet. Bounding into the kitchen, he continued his tirade of abuse, one hand wrapped tightly into Morgan Potter's dark hair. He dragged her summarily into the dining room, stopped at the sight of the destroyed plate and mess, and lowered her head down at it. "Do you see this? What the devil did you do?"
"Noth—" Morgan tried.
"You made this mess, girl," Vernon interrupted, finally releasing his grip. He watched as his niece grabbed the nearby broom and began sweeping up the glass. He clenched his jaw. "And after you clean this up, go to bed. You've eaten enough."
Petunia stalked in after them, jaw pulled taut, eyes glazed over, and said nothing.
"I haven't eaten anything," Morgan argued, eyes set on her task. "I was here all day, cooking."
And then, to his horror, Vernon Dursley reared his hand back and slapped Morgan Potter across the face. The girl's head snapped to the left; she dropped the broom. Petunia flinched behind him, hand raised to her mouth and eyes wide, and continued her silence.
Vernon roared at the girl, spewing more abuse in her ears. The tirade seemed to focus solely on her parents — though his description of James and Lily as drunken vagabonds was pure fabrication. But Morgan stood absolutely still, hands held into tight fists at her side, staring off into nothing. Kingsley recognised this behaviour: disassociation. She'd disconnected from her surroundings entirely, a self-preservation instinct very common in abuse victims. Vernon continued to scream and shout, his words growing ever fiercer and more reprehensible by the minute, until at last, he began to make physical threats.
At his side, Amelia held a hand to her mouth and cursed quietly. He knew she was imagining her own niece, Susan, in such a vile situation, and also knew that Vernon Dursley would not see the light of day as a free man for as long as he lived for it.
And then, the man removed his belt. A flicker of something, a current beneath the veneer of reality, hit Kingsley. He could feel Morgan's magic even through a memory. It was astounding. Wide eyed, he witnessed the girl pleading for mercy. He ground his teeth. Vernon raised the belt over his head and began the downswing —
— and the room exploded.
He'd never seen such a volatile and powerful instance of accidental magic in all his years in the force. Most children, even those in less-than-perfect home situations, had the typical events: levitation, colour-changing, summoning, pyromancy. He'd even seen a few odd occurrences of charmspeak in his time. Never anything like this.
'This' being pure, unfiltered destruction. Amelia grabbed his hand once more, and they ascended away from the desolation that was once No. 4, Privet Drive.
Kingsley escaped from Dudley's memory gratefully, breathing heavily into his hands. Rubbing his eyes, he had no words. The sheer magnitude of a case like this would shake the foundations of magical Britain for decades to come. The trial alone would be the most heavily-reported in the nation's history. And that was only if they could find Morgan Potter in time.
He knew the statistics, vague as they were. In the muggle world, after the first forty-eight hours of a person disappearing, the odds of finding them alive nosetailed exponentially. It wasn't nearly as disheartening in the magical side, what with tracking charms, forensic spells, and the like…but time still worked against them.
"The memory ends with Morgan Potter fleeing the home, as you saw," said Amelia. She'd recovered far easier than he. "Robards tracked her magical signature for nearly half a kilometre before it suddenly vanished. There were traces resonant with apparition."
Kingsley blinked. "That's not possible."
Amelia levelled him with an unimpressed look. "And yet… You just saw what that girl is capable of, Shack. She destroyed that room to its foundations at eight years old. A bit of apparition is where you draw the line of disbelief?"
He nodded, acceding the point. But then… "She could be anywhere, boss. She could have splinched herself and bled out. Our typical tracking methods are focused on registered wands; we have no way of tracking her without one."
"I've spoken to Croaker," she responded. "The D.o.M. has a vested interest in keeping Morgan Potter alive at all costs. They can't very well study how she survived that night if she's either locked up in Azkaban for murder or dead."
"Locked up?" Kingsley spat out, incensed at the very idea of it. And then. "Azkaban?"
Amelia sighed, sinking against the wall opposite him. She removed her monocle and rubbed the tension out of her brow. "She killed her aunt, Shack. If the 'gamot decides to prosecute, there's little I can do to protect her."
"She's eight!" he shouted, rising to his feet. "And it was a clear-cut case of self-defence if I've ever seen one."
"And you think that will matter to Malfoy?" demanded Amelia, her own tone sharp and cutting like a blade to his neck. "What about Burke? Crabbe? Nott? Will her age mean a damn thing to them if this goes to trial?"
Kingsley refused to let this go. On principle more than anything else, even the legality of their position, he felt that Morgan Potter was innocent of all wrongdoing. Not a court in Britain would prosecute her. "If they knew she was being regularly abused by her guardians? Absolutely. You know as well as I how seriously the purebloods take that kind of thing."
Amelia eyed him warily, biting her lip. He could see the tiredness beneath her eyes in the dark circles, overworked and underpaid as she was. There was a distress there that seemed to be based on more than just this case alone. He tilted his head. "What's really going on, Amy?"
His boss cleared her throat and moved to the liquor cabinet. Two glasses she filled with a fifth of Ogden's Oaken-Barrel Special. She handed one to him and downed hers unceremoniously in the same moment. Wincing slightly at the burn, she became transfixed with the glass. Quietly, so much so that he wasn't quite sure he'd heard her, she muttered: "Dumbledore was the one who placed her there."
Kingsley fell back into the chair beneath him heavily. Gripping his glass tightly in both hands, he closed his eyes. "Shit."
Millicent Bagnold had been born for the limelight.
She was graced with a natural charm, like all the men and women in her family before her. The Bagnolds were, in a word, magnetic. Her father had commanded a platoon during the war with Grindelwald to great success, highly decorated soldiers all before Dumbledore had won that hallowed duel in Berlin. Her mother, inversely, had enjoyed a storied career as a journalist for The Daily Prophet, earning renown and contacts that had served her daughter well in her political career. That same magnetism stretched back centuries, men and women of great repute and success, and Millicent carried on that trend even now.
She'd experienced her defining moment younger than most in her family. From the moment she was handed her valedictorian graduation diploma from Albus Dumbledore following her years at Hogwarts, watching on as the entire country celebrated her accomplishment, she knew that this public-facing lifestyle was for her. She'd shivered in delight from the applause, from the feeling of a job well done and recognised.
Millicent revelled in the attention, whether positive or negative (though she vastly preferred the former). Her desire for acknowledgement, for praise, had allowed her the motivation to rise through the Ministry ranks with harrowing velocity.
She'd gone from paper-pusher to Junior Minister for the Department of International Magical Cooperation in nine months, and then to Senior Ambassador for the International Confederation of Wizards in just under three years. Her time there was spent ensuring Britain's continental counterparts that the self-styled Lord Voldemort would not threaten their countries, or worse their sovereignty.
And then, in late 1978, just after the elder Potters had been found murdered in their home, Millicent had declared her intent to run for Minister for Magic. Due to her father's wartime experience, she had ample understanding for how to garner support from the auror corp and DMLE. Her intentions and promises to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters were met with widespread support.
She'd won the 1980 election in a landslide, and six months later Voldemort was dead.
Her Ministerial terms were known for economic safety and surplus. The people were fed, safe, and happy. The Death Eaters rotted in Azkaban. Their icon, Morgan Potter, was an international celebrity, hidden away and protected by Albus Dumbledore himself. Tourism was at an all-time high. Her term would go down in history as one of victory and success, and the Bagnold name would live on.
Every interview with the Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly, every Wireless address to the nation, every press conference and Wizengamot session, was performed by her with the assumption (and expectation) that she was both competent and admired by her people. She'd done the work, paid and handed out favours to the right people, and to her mind, nothing would change that. Her legacy was successful.
The speech she was readying herself to give would destroy her career.
The pungent aroma and blinding flash of camera lights affected her truly for the first time in her life. Reporters, concerned citizens, and Ministry workers milled about the atrium, all eyes on the podium whereupon she stood, ready (or not) to give this urgent address to the citizens of magical Britain. To her great dismay, she could feel the thin sheen of sweat on her lower back. Her perfectly-coiffed hair felt limp and bedraggled. Her dress robes, too tight. For the first time since she'd accepted the post and taken her oath, Millicent Bagnold regretted ever becoming Minister for Magic.
"Good evening," she said regardless, thanking the old gods that her voice was even and resonant. She tapped her throat with her wand. "Sonorus. Good evening, all! Before we begin, I must thank the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and our Auror Corp, the brave wixen charged with our safety and protection. As well, various members of the Wizengamot are among us in attendance tonight, and I would be remiss if I did not express my appreciation for their gallant support. Now…
"I must warn each and every one of you — what I must tell you now is harrowing. I myself did not believe a word spoken to me until shown absolute proof. I urge you all to hold your comments and questions until the end of this address, where myself and Madam Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE, will address your concerns. Thank you."
The crowd shifted uneasily, murmuring quietly, a slowly flowing wave of unease. Millicent took a breath and rearranged her notes. Mother magic, preserve us all.
"Just this past Thursday, the sixteenth of June, 1988, at approximately nineteen-hundred hours, the Ministry's Tracking, Reconnaissance, and Correction Expenditure system, commonly known as the Trace, was triggered and investigated. Analysts in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes tracked the event to a modestly-inhabited area of Surrey, primarily muggle, and narrowed the focus further to a subdivision in Little Whinging. Aurors, Operators, and Obliviators arrived on-scene to a most gruesome sight.
"Evidence gathered suggests that a young wix consigned to the home was a victim of severe emotional, verbal, and physical abuse, performed at the hands of her only living relatives," continued Millicent. Scattered gasping, jeering, and shouting met her ears. She called for silence. "I know this is distressing, disturbing. None can admit that more so than I. It seems, however, that the outburst of accidental magic performed by the wix in question was rather more powerful than any other in recorded history. Forensics estimates the residual traces of magic were detected as far as Bristol, Northampton, and Cambridge. Unfortunately, the implosion caused by this outburst proved to be lethal. One of the muggles in residence was killed, and another is in critical condition at St. Mungo's. They will be treated accordingly, interviewed, and upon review of evidence, prosecuted by our non-magical counterparts.
"From the witness, we were also able to garner sufficient suspicion that the young wix also fed from the scene following the magical outburst. The DMLE has been put on high alert, and this case marked as Urgent. All involved Heads of Departments will find memos in their offices following this address."
Millicent untied the ascot from her neck and sat it aside. Grabbing a handkerchief, she wiped her sodden, sweaty face and cleared her throat. The atrium was stifling. Sat before her on the podium was a Ministerial Order, signed by herself on November 2, 1981, allowing the Chief Warlock custody over the Girl-Who-Lived. Millicent would remember it as the greatest mistake of her life. She'd long since accepted that this would mark the end of her career. She took a breath.
"I'm sure many of you are wondering why the Office of the Minister is placing such importance on a single instance of accidental magic, even in a case of clear-cut abuse such as this," she said. "I do not blame you. This is understandably unprecedented in our history, given the value we in magical society place on our children. You see, the young witch in question is our very own Morgan Potter, the Girl-Who-Lived."
She'd been expecting rage. She'd assumed vitriol. But the din that tore through the atrium shook the entire building, and Millicent trembled along with it. An uproar of outrage and despair reached her ears, and she saw aurors begin to move among the crowd, wands drawn in the even of a riot. She raised her hands high.
"I know!" she shouted, drawing their ire and attention. "I know. Morgan Potter is a symbol to our people, a living icon of our victory over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I mourn with you all for the injustice of her circumstances, and I promise you that I will not rest until she is found and returned to our world safely. That is my solemn oath to you."
She took a deep breath, a queer feeling of relief in her chest now that it was all out and in the open. "I will now take questions."
Rita Skeeter, ever eager to draw first blood, stood and shouted over the cacophony. "Minister Bagnold, my readers will want to know: How was Morgan Potter of all people placed into an abusive home?" The sickly blonde sensationalist aimed an evil grin at the Minister, and then simpered. "Who authorised such a thing?"
Bagnold steepled her hands above the podium and grimaced. For a moment, she considered lying. "The exact details of Morgan Potter's post-war placement are confidential. The Dark Lord's followers were still active following his death, and an agreement was made between Albus Dumbledore, former Head of the DMLe, Bartemius Crouch, and myself. Primary custody of the Girl-Who-Lived was awarded to Albus Dumbledore."
She saw the exact moment when her words were received. Like a switch, the culpability of Morgan Potter's abuse was laid upon herself and Dumbledore. They all knew it, she knew it, and she foresaw the coming fallout a mile away. This would not only destroy her career, throw all of her post-war amendments and legislation into question, but it would call Dumbledore's authority and trust into the gutter alongside her. He'd be lucky to retain his position as Headmaster of Hogwarts. The ICW would crucify him.
Millicent called upon another reporter.
The unfamiliar young man stood, quill and paper held tightly in his arms. In heavily-accented English he spoke. "Merci, Minister. Adrien Lévêque with the Sorcier Parisien. I have a question for Madame Bones: If such a high-profile citizen such as Morgan Potter is not safe from her own kin, how can your department assure your citizens, especially children, of their safety?"
Millicent stepped aside. Amelia stepped forward, fierce as a dragon and equally like to spit fire, and answered: "My department, and the Ministry as an institution, considers the safety and well-being of magical children the highest priority. Children are our future: they are both the continuation of our legacy and the realisation of the next generation of magic. Much of our investigation is still ongoing, and thus details are confidential. I can only say this — we failed Morgan Potter. For nearly seven years we have enjoyed the peace and prosperity her and her family's sacrifice afforded us, and we must strive to do better.
"My department is working closely with legislators from the Wizengamot to pass into writing a new code for the treatment and safety of all magical children in Britain, whether they are born to a magical family or muggle. Thank you."
"A moment, Madam Bones!" another reporter cried out. "Where is Albus Dumbledore? Has he been called to assist in the investigation?"
Bones stopped. Millicent cursed under her breath. There was no good answer to that question. It would damn them all equally. Still, the Head of the DMLE nodded and responded.
"Albus Dumbledore was contacted immediately after our investigation revealed that our missing person was Morgan Potter," she said. "Once sufficient evidence of culpability is gathered and collated, he will be placed under arrest for his involvement in this miscarriage of justice. No further comment."
Millicent's wand vibrated in her palm, signalling the end of their time allotment. She stepped forward. "That's all the time we have for tonight. My office will keep all of you apprised with any and all new information as it comes to us. For all of us here tonight, and to those of you listening in, please be on the lookout for Morgan Potter. Missing persons posters will be released within the hour, posted in all major cities, villages, and boroughs, and delivered by owl upon request. And if by some miracle you are listening, Morgan, our hearts are with you. You are in no danger, no trouble. We only wish to see you safe. Good night."
As one, she and her department heads exited from the stage. A glance over her shoulder put her at eye level with Cornelius Fudge, who just the month before had announced his candidacy for Minister in the upcoming 1990 election. The gleam in his eye said all she needed to know, and for that she offered a single, solemn nod. The outroar followed her deeper and deeper into the building as she retreated.
"Minister Bagnold!"
"Here, Minister, just a moment of your time please!"
"Justice for Morgan Potter!"
"JUSTICE FOR THE GIRL-WHO-LIVED!"
The last of those earnest cries became a chant spread throughout magical Britain, as this press conference had been aired live over the Wixen Wireless. Hundreds of postal owls set off from within the Ministry's owleries, each carrying hundreds of featherweight-charmed posters depicting the Girl-Who-Lived. On every street corner from Plymouth to Aberdeen, those same posters lined the sides of buildings and notice boards. Within hours every man, woman, and child in England was aware that Morgan Potter was missing.
That morning, just after breakfast, the eldest daughter of one of the oldest and most powerful families in England heard the news in her three-story riverside home in Marlow. She peered at the poster keenly, noted the high cheekbones of her family, the jaded, haunted emerald-green eyes, the dark, wild curls that reminded her so dearly of her lost sister. Within moments, she had crossed the house and sauntered into her husband's solar.
"Ted," she said imperiously, drawing his attention. "We need to talk."
In the Scottish highlands, seated at the bar of a dusty, dingy bar just off the beaten path in Hogsmeade, an aged man of some years downed a large gulp of firewhisky straight from the bottle. He was dressed in a dark cloak, the hood concealing his wizened face, ever hopeful to remain unrecognised as the bar closed up for the morning. The Hog's Head looked even worse when empty, if such a thing was possible. The Dumbledores had never been a wealthy family, and though Aberforth made a tidy profit each night, he'd never remodelled or indeed, even deigned to clean this place at all.
Albus hated the sight of it. He'd never understood his brother's obsession with bartending. It felt like a lesser position than a man of Aberforth's quality could command. Though, now that he was essentially in hiding, he felt he could understand, just a little.
The guilt he felt was like a noose around his neck. All Albus Dumbledore could do was await the executioner. The public had already sentenced him.
He scoffed and took another drink. In all his long years, only thrice before had such a glaring result of his own failures been shoved into his face. The first was the memory of Ariana's soft blue eyes, empty and staring into nothing. The second, decades later, was the sight of Gellert incarcerated within Nurmengard. The third was the sight of what Tom Riddle had become all those years later.
What had been meant as an ensurement of Morgan Potter's safety had turned out to be nothing short of a nightmare. And he was responsible for placing her in it.
Suddenly, the bottle was ripped from his hands. Looking up, Albus saw the hateful face of his younger brother glaring down at him.
"Done yet?" asked Aberforth, without pity.
"No," Albus replied petulantly. Wandlessly, he summoned another bottle from behind the bar.
Aberforth ignored him, wiping a dirty glass with an even dirtier cloth. "I have to say, Albus, you've really quite outdone yourself this time. I'd thought, perhaps, that you had gotten control over the worst of your impulses after you killed Ari." He hummed thoughtfully, not noticing or uncaring for the tears suddenly sprouting in his elder brother's eyes. He let out a mirthless laugh. "But you can't seem to help yourself, can you? It's a compulsion for you — your hands have to be in everyone's pie. Another young girl doomed to have the magic beaten out of her. Another beautiful life, full of promise, brought short by your pride. The parallels are…uncanny."
Albus cleared his throat, voice still hoarse from the day's toil. "I did not kill Ariana, brother."
The cleaning stopped. Aberforth did not face him. "Did you not?"
"I remember three wands raised that day, Aberforth," said Albus. "I remember three spells being fired — both yours and mine at Gellert, and his at our sister. I have not absolved myself of that guilt; things should have never gotten that far. But her death is not on my hands."
"Hm." Aberforth returned to his lacklustre bussing. A nonchalant wave of his hand saw chairs turned up onto their tables, high-backed stools tucked beneath the oily, filthy bar. "I'm sure it came as a comfort to her in the end, brother, that it was not your wand that ended her life. Merely your lover's."
Albus stood at once, enraged. He stared Aberforth down in fury. "And did I not avenge her? Did you not hear of it, hidden away here at the edge of the world when all of Europe burned? You have your own sins to bear; must you always remind me of mine?"
"Of course," said Aberforth as if the answer were obvious. "Someone has to keep you humble."
"Of my many faults, a lack of humility is not one."
"Tell that to Morgan Potter," said Aberforth, ignoring his brother's face again. "If they find her alive, that is."
"She's alive."
"And you know this," Aberforth questioned, turning back to face him, brow raised. "How?"
Albus sighed and closed his eyes. "When I used Lily's blood to case the wards over Petunia Dursley's home, I placed no small amount of charms on Morgan herself. Monitoring spells mostly, to measure her growth, health, and residence in the home. If she were dead, those charms would have dissipated."
Aberforth grunted. "If you know she's alive, why not inform the Ministry? The entire country is up in arms over her disappearance."
"I cannot track her," Albus answered. "The charms are anchored to the home itself. And with Petunia's death, Lily's protection is, if not outright destroyed, then greatly lessened."
Aberforth sighed and placed the glass onto the bar. "I hate to continue to berate you, but I have to ask: what were you thinking?"
"That she would be far better off living away from the danger here," said Albus tiredly. "There is a measure of safety in anonymity. At the time, Bellatrix Lestrange and her ilk were still at large. Lucius Malfoy had just begun his Imperius defence. Sirius Black was not yet revealed as a turncloak. I needed to keep her safe, and there was no safer place for her than that home…or so I assumed."
"How many people have your assumptions gotten killed?" Aberforth asked pitilessly.
Albus closed his eyes, recalling the sight of Lily Potter's body that night, the sound of Morgan Potter wailing for her mother in the nearby crib. Ariana, the life snuffed from her as the Obscurial was rendered from her body. The hundreds of wixen sacrificed to ensure his path to Gellert was clear on that day in Berlin. A solitary tear dripped down his cheek. "Too many. Far too many."
Aberforth said nothing for a long while. Instead, he moved on to clean the next glass, and then another. Finally, after his dishes were 'clean,' after several minutes of tense silence, he finally spoke. His voice was quiet, full of anguish. "You know they'll have your head for this, right?"
Albus clenched his jaw and stood, taking a final drag of whisky. He tugged at the bond between himself and his familiar. From far off, he felt the instantaneous wildfire heat of Fawkes' approach. When the phoenix flames embraced him, ready to carry him away to the safe confines of his office, he nodded and said: "I know."
Aberforth didn't say goodbye.
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